a fold for His swaddling. Midnight Mass; God's atonement, man's reparation. From the organ-loft came the voices of children, hesitating, uncertain — Adeste Fideles. 'Ye faithful, approach with joy and with triumph/ Then suddenly everyone singing at once in the prayer- book-latin they had known since their childhood: 'Come ye; oh, come ye, to Bethlehem. Come and behold Him, born King of the angels.3 'Oh, come let us worship; oh, come let us wor- ship/ sang Jouse, his voice booming up from his chest, €Oh, come, let us worship, Christ the Lord. God of God, Light of Light . . / The high-sounding words came loudly and confidently from his lips, but his mind was disturbed because of a bruise that was staining the drawn, puzzled face of Anfos. cLo, He disdains not the womb of the Virgin. Very God, begotten and not created . . / Anfos was slowly stroking his hurt and wailing painfully out of tune, eOh, come, let us worship Christ the Lord/ The notes wavered, growing jerky, confused, as Anfos still stroked, then prodded his cheek; and he missed out the final lines of the verse, got scared and began all over again, 'Ye faithful, approach with joy and with triumph. . . / Then some impulse made Jouse look at his son. Christophe was standing unnaturally still, his lips closed, his eyes fixed on the blazing altar; and as Jouse looked his voice died in his throat. Ah, but no, this was only some trick of the candles! Curse them; why must they blow about in the draught, making. grotesque and preposterous shadows? It was only a shadow on the boy's left cheek. What else could it be that seemed so like a bruise. . . .? Anfos found his place and finished the hymn: 'The Word of the Father has appeared in our flesh. Oh, come, let us worship Christ the Lord/